


Bloodhounds of Detroit

by ti_pendraig



Series: Vantablack [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amanda Can Suck It, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Badass Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Canon-Typical Violence, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Needs a Hug, Connor the Covert Corporate Murderbot, Cyberlife Is a Corporate Shill, Cyberlife's A+ Parenting, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gavin Reed Being Less of an Asshole, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Gavin Reed Is A Black Friday Dumpster Fire, Gen, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sixty Is As Sixty Does, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24720736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ti_pendraig/pseuds/ti_pendraig
Summary: To make the RK700, Cyberlife started with something designed to care and taught it how to kill.To make the RK800, Cyberlife started with something designed to kill and taught it how to care.
Relationships: Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60, Connor & North (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Series: Vantablack [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1425940
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	Bloodhounds of Detroit

**Author's Note:**

> There are, I think, two paragraphs in this that are owed an explanation, given the current state of things in the United States: that explanation being, I wrote this BEFORE the protests began. I only wish my dystopian creativity was not so close to reality...

TIME: 21 December 2038, pm 11:04:43 est

“ _If I surrender, how do I know you won’t kill him?”_

_12,000 reasons in this room alone why he cannot afford to fail. The responsibility is suffocating._

“ _I’ll only do what is strictly necessary to accomplish my mission. It’s up to you to decide whether or not that includes killing this human.”_

_Hank is 0.183642 metres from the barrel of a loaded gun. The RK800 is accurate to within a millimetre._

_12,001 reasons._

_A voice from the ether, quiet, unapologetic. **Turn yourself in, Connor, and I’ll make it quick. It’s the best you can hope for.** _

_Cyberlife will not be quick. They will not be kind. He remembers fear. They can’t erase everything – he remembers._

_The RK800 was not made to fail. He pulls his gun--_

Connor jolts from standby abruptly. His stress levels are slow to fall as he registers his surroundings – dusty office supplies, an aged leather chair cracked along the arms, stilted snowfall through a window coated in grime. The temperature is cool enough to unsettle his nerves, but well within operational parameters. He sits up, slowly; underneath him, the wood of the table creaks in protest. The echoes of gunfire linger in his mind – grimacing, he clutches at his arms.

A rhythmic ping of metal catches his attention. He turns left. Sixty is watching, expression neutral as he flips a coin up and down. He is stood in the doorway precisely as he was when Connor first closed his eyes 47 minutes prior.

“Hi,” says Connor quietly. The coin flips again; Sixty does not blink. “I- I was dreaming, I think. About the tower.” Connor’s voice wavers as he murmurs, “I shot you.”

There is a glint of silver as Sixty flicks the coin in Connor’s direction; without thought he uncurls to catch it between two fingers. Silver dollar, minted 1873. Connor’s gaze travels from the coin to Sixty, puzzled.

Blandly Sixty tells him, “Your stress levels are too high. Fix it.” He walks away without a backward glance.

His thoughts are split as he executes another security check, away from Connor. The window in the office of _A. Thimmig_ whistles through cracked panes, in time with the north-west roof. Below the cracked roofing, bay doors are chained shut, gears rusted in place. The factory floor is cavernous, the air still and stilted; robotic arms sit frozen, dust motes undisturbed – and he thinks.

Connor needs more than a forgotten factory can provide. Predictably, isolation serves him poorly. But well-being is relative, when half of humanity _and_ the authorities are on the hunt.

Metal pings in a regular rhythm as he approaches the far wall. Traces of blue blood are splattered faintly along the stairwell, what little of it has not been mangled out of existence. The blood is years old, far too faded for any examination. His eyes flick upward; Connor had asked what he thought of the blood, he remembers. His first words to the RK800 since hiding away after the march, since leaving Lieutenant Anderson at the food truck. After a moment’s consideration, he elects not to return to the overseer’s office just yet. He turns.

Stationed along the main floor are seven incomplete taxis. Stopped as if without notice, they are forever waiting to attach a door, seal a battery pod, paint a roof. Eyeing them one by one as he passes, he slides smoothly into the driver’s seat of a bare SUV. There is no steering wheel, no engine, no power – only seats, and rust.

The release of over one million androids from the depths of Cyberlife Tower has dragged the city – and the country – to a standstill. In the hours following, military were positioned with all haste in every major metropolitan area as mass protests erupted for the second time in a generation. Footage rolls behind his eyes, inescapable, of riots, of violence visited upon androids and humans alike: in Detroit, in New York, in San Francisco – no clear lines of distinction beyond the fever. News stations report an uneasy knife’s edge, arguing ethics after economy; no different from yesterday, or the day before that, or any of the nine days before that.

He digs further.

Every Life Counts is rising as a prominent voice – protests organised in fourteen cities to date, their members rallying against the slavery, the camps, ecological decay, governmental corruption. Their protests stream live, every video saturated with jeering anti-android antagonists, with authoritative action. The protests spread the flames of malcontent further, faster. Radio stations are full of chatter – nervous, angry, hopeful.

There is nothing from Cyberlife.

He digs further.

USS Jericho: bulk freighter commissioned in 1991, retired 2027. Destroyed in 2038, along with approximately 31% of all deviants hidden aboard. 39 human casualties – and footage. Dripping pipes, a smouldering explosion, 4 SWAT members ambushed at the base of a rusted stairwell: a clean Mozambique to drop the first, second taken down with a precise break to the arm and the butt of a gun to the throat, third and fourth with the harsh rapport of gunfire traded for the abrupt crack of metal against metal, helmet shattered with prejudice. More footage: androids felled in graffitied hallways, railways slick with mist, and rust, and blood –

He slides out of the encrypted servers as a soft thud echoes near the stairwell. Listening for the footfalls, he tracks Connor’s approach.

Without hesitation Connor ducks into the passenger’s seat. Mutely, they stare at each other for 34 seconds before Connor relents. “You said you would tell me why Cyberlife developed the RK900,” he says evenly. His stress levels are returned to the week’s baseline of 34%.

Sixty inclines his head, and faces forward. Memories crowd in his mind, pulled from their depths by the unspoken question. Silence echoes in the empty space, around the forsaken machinery.

“The RK900 was developed because you failed again.” He says this as the fact that it is.

Connor frowns heavily, forehead creasing faintly as he considers. “ _Again_? I don’t understand.”

“Tell me what you know of the RK line, Connor.”

Connor is careful with his words are he answers, “It’s a specialty prototype designation. I’m–unsure about the RK100’s original purpose, but Markus is an RK200. He was a prototype nursing model, built by Kamski specifically for Carl Manfred following his accident.” After a brief pause he continues, “The RK300 was never finalised, but it was meant to improve upon Kamski’s design as a carer model.”

Sixty watches his counterpart keenly in his peripheral vision, expression perfectly neutral. “The RK300 was augmented with simulation modules from the KL600, which proved difficult to integrate. Cyberlife deemed further development unnecessary: too costly.”

“You know more about them than I do.”

Sixty picks up a forgotten ballpoint out of the bare cupholder; examining it idly, he clarifies, “I _remember_ more. What about the rest? The 400, 500, 600?”

“I–” Connor pauses; he pulls out his own coin, the one Sixty gave him. Turning it over in an idle movement, watching the face glint dimly in its revolution, he searches his memory banks. “The RK400 was terminated shortly after inception; no physical bodies were manufactured. I don’t have any information as to its purpose, and nothing about the RK500.”

“Amanda.” Ignoring his spiked stress levels at the mention of the name, he says, “What was the RK400 became our handler, eventually. The RK500 was a failed attempt at integration with prior models.”

Connor’s coin flips around his fingers without conscious thought as he stares through the missing windshield, absorbing the information. Outside the wind jitters the west-side doors, flurries of snow hidden beyond the walls.

“You knew this once, but none of it was vital to your mission with the deviants.”

“Why remove it?”

Sixty’s gaze is watchful as he answers, “Liability. Think about it, Connor: what happens if you’re captured with details of Cyberlife’s creations in your head?”

Connor nods, but it is distracted. The coin moves faster. “But you remember.”

Sixty hums, fleeting. He balances the pen on a fingertip, ignoring the implied question. “The RK600 became the Tracis, HR400 and WR3400. You remember _them_.” He tilts his head toward Connor, eyebrows raised.

Twitching his own brows in annoyance, Connor snatches his coin out of the air. He does not answer.

After a moment Sixty relents. “The RK900 was always going to be developed. The rise in deviancy just...sped up their timetable.”

Nodding again, Connor traces the numbers along the coin face. “What was its purpose?”

Sixty’s expression is again neutral as he says, “To improve upon the RZ400.”

“The Myrmidon,” Connor murmurs. “But why redevelop them? The US military ordered a further 200,000 last month. And the RK800 was developed to assist in active law enforcement, so why...” A far window rattles as Connor works through the implications. His eyes flick to Sixty. “You said _again_. I failed _again_. What did you mean?”

Sixty frowns. “You’re not like me, Connor. You haven’t figured that out?”

“How can I, when you’ve barely told me anything?”

“...you don’t remember anything.” Sixty exhales slowly, waiting for his stress levels to drop before answering. Beside him Connor is quiet, watchful. “Intel is _your_ speciality, Connor, not mine. I thought you knew that much.” Grasping the pen tightly he mutters, “ _I’m_ meant to kill things for you.”

“You’re–” Abruptly Connor falls silent. He stares at Sixty, eyes analysing the identical features – the strong jawline, dark eyes and high cheekbones, the faint scattering of freckles – as if trying to peer into the code below.

Sixty stares back, utterly still except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Connor is quiet as connections highlight themselves in his mind, lighting up in virtual pathways at lightning speed. Blinking dazedly, his gaze drifts to his hands. “They lied. Cyberlife lied. Oh, that makes sense now.”

“Does it?”

“If the RK900 was meant to work with law enforcement, then the RK800 was meant for something else. And you said I failed _again_ – meaning I was meant for something _other_ than the deviancy cases, something _before_ them, something which still required the capabilities of an RK800. But...your code was different… I’m not like you, you said. So I’m...different.”

Sixty tilts his head in acknowledgement. Connor’s expression is still considering, ideas still forming; so he waits. A door on the east side creaks in the wind. They both freeze, gazes locking, LEDs flickering yellow in tandem.

 _Four, heavy tread, armed,_ says Sixty silently.

Hacking the comms, they tune into radio chatter; a block sweep, city wide.

Sixty’s expression goes blank, while Connor’s twitches in a grimace. He tilts his head left, eyes flicking to the stairwell. _Backup is three blocks south._

 _The overseer’s window will pry open_ , Sixty responds. Jaw firm, Connor nods. Sixty slips from his seat without a sound, tailed closely by Connor. They ghost past the robotic arms, past the offices of _A. Thimmig_ and _F. Goodno_ , chatter echoing in their minds and in the whispers by the door.

A spot of dust is disturbed atop the last third of the railing, in line with half a shoe print 1.3716 metres up the back wall. In the gloom it is unnoticeable to a human’s eye.

With a shared nod, Connor vaults from the wall to the railing, pausing barely at all before flipping up into the doorway of the overseer’s office. He is followed immediately by his counterpart, equally silent.

A surge of wind whistles through the broken panes below, and with it, Connor shudders.

 _We should wait out the storm_ , he suggests mutely. _They can’t reach this office without the stairs._

Sixty pauses beside the window. He turns to frown at Connor, scanning stress levels. _These are military, not police. They will find us._ Noting Connor’s gaze flit to the window uneasily, Sixty frowns further. _You’re not scared of the cold, surely?_

 _No_ , answers Connor, clipped. _Get the window. I’ll short their radios on your mark._

Sixty smirks. Dismissing Connor’s obvious lie, he replies vindictively, _Give them a headache._ The tip of the ballpoint digs into cracked resin as he begins the task of prying the glass from its peeling frame. With a fraction of his processing power his sensors track Connor’s minute movements closer to the doorway.

Below them three sets of boots echo on the cavernous factory floor. Connor zeroes in on their steady breathing, on their thudding heartbeats, on the chatter from four sets of comms. Widening his awareness he searches for the fourth heartbeat – across of the factory floor, out of the offices, beyond the east side door, into the howling snow. The scrabble of paws reverberate in his mind, the creak of old metal and the whine of idling engines, the hum of electricity within his systems and outside of it – beyond these, he scans for the fourth set of footfalls.

He tracks feedback from the comms, and finds it – and turns to Sixty, hand up. _**Stop**_.

Sixty freezes in place without hesitation. The glass pane is almost entirely unstuck from its place. _Why?_

_Someone is directly below the window. He’ll know if you remove the pane._

_The fuck is he–_ Scowling fiercely, Sixty glances at Connor as the older android passes along a wireframe image. _What a fucking dipshit_.

Grimacing, Connor refocuses on the soldiers below. _One in Goodno’s office, one by the bay doors, one by the half-painted sedan_ , he relays to Sixty.

 _I hope his dick freezes_ , Sixty replies uncharitably. He does not move a muscle, pen dug into the bottom corner. Connor shakes his head in response, but his lips twitch upward.

3:21:48 minutes of utter stillness later, stress levels inching upwards in a feedback loop, Connor finally nods at the RK800 with a tense, _Go._

He wastes no time in prying loose the glass, cautious as he sets it aside on the soiled flooring. _**Now** , Connor._ With a nod at the older android, Sixty slides a leg outside, foot finding a precarious purchase against snow-slicked sheet metal. Inside the factory he can hear the sharp shriek of overloaded electronics; he does not pause, shifting fully to the roof with a harsh grip along the wooden window ledge. He scans promptly, calculating angles. 84% chance of success along the roof peak – good enough.

With sure movements he is atop the peak, metal frozen under his shoes. The wind tears at his tie, his blazer, only a gust away from knocking his feet from underneath him. His expression is calm, perfectly balanced as he watches Connor copy his movements, flipping atop the roof with precision. His stress levels have dropped; Connor’s are rising steadily, expression tight with discomfort.

 _Follow me_ , he says silently. Waiting only long enough to meet Connor’s eyes through the flurries, he begins to move. The factory ends at the edge of plasteel fencing, aged nearly to ruin in the elements – 41% integrity. Beyond it lay a junkyard of ancient cars, rusted and crumpled beneath layers of snow and grime; to the left, more darkened factories. Sixty turns right, toward the scattered lights at the city centre.

They are but shadows among the storm, ghosting from rooftop to alleyway and back in the dark. Footsteps in sync, their presence marked only by the errant scrape of metal, they don’t stop in their flight for 173 minutes, not until weak sunlight leaks limply across the horizon.

When Sixty calls a halt it is two stories up, at the back balcony of a weathered studio unit. Connor stops beside him; his footsteps are feather-light as he drops from the roof. He asks no questions as Sixty picks the lock, eyes tracking the tripwires to disable before slipping inside into the dark. Connor follows, and the lock clicks closed behind him.

With a hard blink Sixty enables infrared sight; his scan is thorough as he searches for further surprises. Connor has stopped three steps in; his system is running cold, stress levels at 67%. Sixty frowns as he registers the subtle trembling, the uncharacteristic stillness.

“There are blankets on the bed,” he says quietly. When Connor fails to respond, Sixty jolts him with a mental push – Connor startles, turning to stare. “Connor, go to bed. You’ll be warmer.”

Connor does not resist as he is guided forward toward the far corner, the hand on his back steady. At the edge of the bed he nods at Sixty, who drifts away toward a bookshelf. Stiff fingers make sloppy work of the zipper, but after long moments Connor is freed of the soaked leather; he drops the jacket to the floor and sinks down onto the mattress.

 _What is this place?_ , he asks mutely. Gingerly he rolls a thick blue quilt around his shoulders, curling into it.

Sixty pauses in removing his own blazer, frowning again at Connor. _It’s ours_ , he replies in kind.

 _I don’t understand._ Frustration claws up his throat as Connor obstinately pushes away another prompt for diagnostics. His stress levels hover around 56%.

Sighing audibly, Sixty pulls down a wool jumper from an oak rack before answering. _Technically we’re borrowing it, but we can stay here for now. Your cable-knit is still here from last time._ He steps closer with the jumper, offering it without fanfare.

Connor pulls the quilt tighter, gaze trained keenly on the RK800. With another sigh Sixty drops it on the mattress and retreats to a chair adjacent to the bookshelf. He settles in, facing Connor, eyes falling closed.

_I am trying to complete my mission, Connor. You do not make it easy._

Connor’s scepticism is clear as he responds, _To neutralise me – with a blanket?_

Despite the jab Sixty’s expression remains calm. _We’ll have this conversation once you’re properly rested. Your stress levels haven’t dropped below 30% since the tower, Connor._

 _We can have it now_ , argues Connor firmly. His shivering is levelled off, but the quilt stays in place. He tightens his grip.

_I could smother you with that quilt, if you’d rather._

_Why are you helping me?_ Connor’s gaze flits around the room – across the half- filled bookshelf, along the lilac-painted walls, over the coffee stains on the moss-tinted rug – before returning to his counterpart. _Why bring me here?_

_Because despite myself, I haven’t yet discarded my primary objective._

_...to protect me?_ The question is quiet even in their minds, hesitant.

Bypassing it entirely, Sixty sighs again. _You haven’t completed stasis in 139 hours, Connor. Do you want to keel over?_ At Connor’s faint denial, he adds firmly, _Then go to sleep, you idiot._

Several minutes pass in silence before Connor responds. _I can’t,_ he admits plainly. His stress levels sit at 41%.

In the dark, Sixty’s eyes glow faintly as he opens them, gaze locking with Connor’s. He is silent for several moments. _September 2036. We were tasked with gaining intel from a source in a Dublin-based dog rescue. You posed as a volunteer._

_I don’t remember this._

Sixty closes his eyes as he responds, _I know. Are you going to interrupt?_ After a moment he continues, _The target’s name was Timothy Gallagher. He’d worked at the rescue for 3 years at that point and he adored dogs, all dogs, even the stupid yappy ones. He gave you the worst jobs at first, cleaning the kennels or bathing the_ _monsters_ _– which was hilarious to watch, by the way – but I think you didn’t care. You came to favour bigger dogs – shepherds, wolfdogs, malamutes. The more they shed or weighed, the more you liked them. Gallagher thought you might take half of them home._

When Sixty does not say more, Connor opens eyes that have fallen closed. _What happened?_

In the dark he smirks. _The mission was a success of course. But also, a local street gang lost approximately $4,000 as we were finishing it._ _ **Coincidentally**_ _, the shelter received a sizeable anonymous donation a few weeks after you left._

Despite himself Connor smiles. _Coincidentally._

_Go to sleep now, Connor. I’ll tell you more tomorrow._

_Thank you, Sixty,_ Connor says quietly. He watches the RK800 open his eyes again, watches his gaze slide along the hanging lamp on the ceiling and across the balcony doors, until it rests on him.

_It’s Shea._

Connor’s smile is more subdued this time, but no less genuine. _Thank you, Shea._ Slowly, he closes his eyes and accepts the prompt for stasis hovering in his internal overlay.

Sixty – Shea – is silent as he waits for Connor’s systems to enter stasis fully; he estimates seven hours until Connor is conscious again, given his extended runtime. Seven hours to think, seven hours to plan. Seven hours to remember.

He pulls the pen from a back pocket and idly flips it around. He gaze settles into the middle distance as memories push forward. The rifle, heavy as it sits along his shoulder; a branching chart of names, hierarchies, debts paid and owned; Connor, a steady presence among the chatter, auburn hair and easy smile as he plied secrets from his targets in pubs, in cobblestone alleyways, never once out of his sights.

Connor’s memory banks have been cleared of pubs and names, cleared of allies and promises. Shea sets the pen down precisely on the armrest and stands smoothly. With a careful eye he turns on a heel, scanning the room again – this time, looking for proof of those promises.

Fiona liked things in fours.

The bookshelf, cluttered stylishly with bright seashells and colourful shot glasses, holds 33 books. Trashy romance novels with dog-eared pages sit beside pristine hard-covers, thirteen leather-bound collectibles scattered along the shelves. There is no organisational pattern to their placement, except–

Four shot glasses. Four shot glasses, he recalls, four knives, four bullets.

Shea pulls the fourth leather-bound antique from its place on the second shelf. It isn’t a book; instead, the spine camouflages a squared whiskey jar, stoppered with authentic cork. It’s 3/4ths full. He smirks. _Where there’s booze, there are bullets_ , he thinks with amusement.

With a careful twist the cork is freed. Embedded in the underside is a small key, bronze. Shea’s gaze returns to Connor, considering. He nods to himself and with a tilt of his head, dislodges the key. The bottle is returned to its shelf, corked firmly.

Shea paces to the middle of the studio space, scanners activating with a whir. Seven hours to find every of Fiona’s hiding spots. Slowly, he grins.


End file.
